Metal Urge (6 page)

****

The weekend turned out to be much like Nigel hoped it would, allowing him to shrug off his earlier misgivings.  Deanna pleasured him in ways he had only dreamed of; he literally begged and pleaded for more.  He eagerly reciprocated and Deanna experienced mind blowing gratification in places she didn’t even realize existed, much less knew were capable of experiencing such unbelievable delight.

They reluctantly left the damp, tangled sheets to eat and watch a little television before luring each other back to the bedroom to discover even more innovative ways to
pleasure one another.  But it all turned sour in the early hours of Monday morning right before Nigel had to leave, and Deanna begged him to make love to her.  He was eager to be on his way and her choice of words made him edgy and uncomfortable.  Hadn't he spent hours getting her off?  What more did she want from him?

Their last few minutes together went so badly that after returning to his flat, he realized he’d never get rid of the persistent, gnawing guilt until he apologized.  Despite his wounded pride, he grudgingly marched to the corner phone box and called her.  Nigel could still picture the hurt and confusion in Deanna's beautiful green eyes after his body failed to respond despite her expert ministrations prompting him to storm out of her flat in anger and embarrassment.  Although he resented her for putting him in such an awkward and humiliating position, he still couldn’t shake the feeling that he was to blame, and that was bloody nonsense.  There was no question that he would have to consider breaking it off with her---she wanted far more than he was willing, or able, to give.  His phone call to Deanna ate at Nigel's guts, making him angry and even more resentful.  He was in a nasty mood as he walked back to the flat wondering why this was happening now.  All he wanted was a girl he could have a bit of fun with and plenty of casual sex with no strings attached.  To make matters worse, Thom was being a real bastard to him as well.  He had no idea what that was about.  If Thom continued to treat him like rubbish, he would find out what the wanker’s problem was, and it would be up to Thom whether it went down the easy way or the hard way.  Either way, his old mate had better not allow his pissy attitude to interfere with the band’s upcoming recording sessions because he would have no problem setting Thom straight.  No bloody problem at all.

Chapter 8

There was a slight chill in the air but Alistair didn’t mind.  He leaned against the rusted metal fence post in front of their shoddy little flat, and took a long, satisfying drag off of his cigarette.  He watched the smoke rings dissolve around his face before finishing off the cigarette and tossing the smoldering butt to the ground.  He had worked well into the wee hours of the morning, plucking out the final notes of a melody he had composed on the spur of the moment.  He was tired, and his eyes felt sore but nothing could dampen his excitement at the prospect of meeting the infamous Wild Bill Dennison, and getting started on Metal Urge’s first record.  He hoped it would be the first of many; all brilliant and successful, earning the band platinum records and tons of dosh.  This day had been a long time coming.  Metal Urge had paid more than their fair share of dues, and Alistair was confident that this was the beginning of a long and prosperous career.  He knew his mates were just as excited and anxious to get on with it as he was, but there seemed to be a lot of tension between Thom and Nigel.  They’d all been restless and full of nervous energy since Trevor Hampton’s party but the rift between those two seemed personal; he feared it might interfere with the band’s performance.  If they failed to sort it out, he would step in and see that it got sorted---quickly and tidily.  Metal Urge had struggled too long and too hard to risk failure over some petty disagreement.

The front door swung open and Brad joined Alistair at the gate.  Alistair offered Brad a cigarette, and they smoked in companionable silence, each man lost in his own thoughts about the coming days.

“Trevor has arrived,” Brad said a few minutes later when a black, American sedan parked at the curb in front of their flat.

A white van rolled up behind the car and cut its rumbling engine.  Two burly men got out of the van and one of them strolled up to the sedan, opened the door, and ushered Trevor Hampton out of the back seat like he was a visiting dignitary arriving for his meeting with the Queen.

Alistair and Brad looked at each other with eyebrows raised, chuckling at the arrogance of the man.

“What a pompous git,” Alistair said under his breath.

“Yeah,” Brad agreed.  “But that git is gonna make us rich.”

“He’d better,” Alistair said before going inside to let the others know their “humble” manager had arrived at last.

Jayson looked up from the floor where he was crouching next to a large round case that he was trying to wrestle his snare drum into without much success.  “Trevor brought food, yeah?” Jayson asked anxiously.  “He promised he would bring food.”  He whistled as his snare drum finally dropped neatly into its case.

Thom rubbed a soft cloth over his raven-black Flying V guitar before shutting the guitar case and flipping the clasps closed.  “Down boy,” he said to Jayson who was once again staring nervously at the front door as Trevor entered, carrying two large paper bags that rapidly filled the flat with a delicious spicy fragrance.

“Curry anyone?”  Trevor asked, depositing one bag in front of Jayson who ripped into it eagerly.  Trevor stood with his hands on his hips and watched the four lads tuck into their aromatic Indian feast with great relish.

“Where the hell is Nigel?”  He said after noticing the singer’s absence.

“He’s at the corner phone box calling his new muse,” Jayson said through a mouthful of food.

“That’s right,” Brad concurred before taking another large bite of his steaming curry.

Alistair wiped his mouth and added, “Nigel is saying goodbye to the lovely and curvaceous Lady Deanna of Woodsome Road.”

Trevor snorted, sounding a bit like a pig, and coughed to cover his embarrassment.  The band looked like they wanted to laugh but they continued to eat while Trevor fussed with his clothes and tried to regain his composure.  He straightened his coat collar and sniffed, “He’d better get back here soon if we’re to stay on schedule.”  He impatiently motioned to one of the men from the van and told him to go fetch Nigel.

Alistair looked up from his meal and said dryly, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.  Nigel won’t like it.”

“Yeah,” Jayson chimed in.  “Lady Deanna makes Nigel happy and anyone that can make Sir Sullen Guilford happy deserves a proper farewell,” Jayson finished with a grin.

“Here!  Here!”  Brad shouted and raised his beer bottle into the air.

The others followed suit except for Thom, who glared at them in disgust.  “Why don’t you bloody wanks just shut the fuck up,” Thom snarled and tossed his plate of food on the floor, scattering the contents in a sticky mess across the threadbare carpet.  He grabbed his guitar case and headed for the front door, casting filthy looks at his mates who stared at him in open-mouthed disbelief.

Trevor reached out to stop Thom and sputtered, “Sergei and Angus will take care of loading all of the equipment. That’s why I hired them.”

Thom pushed past him with an angry glare.  “No one touches my fucking gear but me,” he growled and slammed the door in Trevor’s shocked face.

Trevor straightened his shoulders and turned to the group who were still reeling from Thom’s furious exit.  “Well gentlemen,” he said through gritted teeth, “Just what was
that
all about?”

They all shrugged and set about trying to clean the gummy mess Thom had left on the floor.  Trevor frowned at the absurd notion that Deanna, that little gray mouse of a girl, could actually cause Thom to throw a jealous fit.  It would be bloody hilarious if it wasn’t such a dangerous threat to this group of Black Country louts, and his, financial success.  He could certainly understand this nonsense if Thom were jealous because he was attracted to Nigel---but that blonde American twit?  Trevor could almost appreciate the “gay” perspective, it was far more plausible, but he knew it wasn’t the case.  Thom had gone into a rage when the others toasted the silly tart who had evidently become the churlish singer’s girlfriend.  Now he might be forced to clean up the mess, and he didn't mean the nasty glob staining the already dirty carpet.  Far too much was at stake and that bitch was not going to muck it up any further---he would see to that.  There were so many ways to get rid of unwanted vermin…

Alistair snapped Trevor out of his daydream to mention the time.  It was getting late and Nigel still hadn’t shown up.  Trevor watched Sergei and Angus load the last of Jayson’s drum kit into the van.  They stepped aside after Thom said something to them and climbed into the van, slamming the door behind him.  The two men shrugged and wandered away to share a joint.

“You lot will ride with me,” Trevor turned and said to the three remaining band members then added, “Nigel better get his bloody arse to Shropshire on time or there will be…”

“Or there will be what?” Nigel asked from the doorway.

Trevor whirled around intending to give Nigel a piece of his mind but thought better of it when he saw the look on the bastard's face.  The vocalist was smiling, but only with his mouth.  His hazel eyes flashed with an invitation for Trevor to press his luck---if he dared.  Unwilling to let Nigel believe he had the upper hand; Trevor glanced at his watch and said sarcastically, “Nice of you to join us, Guilford.”

Nigel ignored him and tugged on his leather driving gloves, flexing his fingers to get a tight fit.  Brad hurried towards the door carrying a large plastic sack and Nigel stopped him.  “What happened here?” He inquired, indicating the bits of food still stuck to the floor.

“Thom threw one of his tantrums again,” Brad replied and continued outside to put the bag in the rubbish bin.

Slipping on his mirrored shades, Nigel brushed past Trevor who was still furious over the insolent wanker’s show of disrespect toward him; Metal Urge’s new band manager, and obvious superior.  Trevor wanted to wipe that look of contempt right off the fucking bastard’s pretty-boy face in a spray of blood, teeth, and cartilage.  He sucked in his breath and looked down at his clenched fists.  A drop of blood squeezed out from between his trembling fingers and he realized he had curled his hands so tightly that his fingernails left bloody cuts across his palms.  He glared at Nigel’s retreating back and sneered.  This band of misfit hicks from the back water Midlands slums
owed
him, and he
owned
them.  They best remember that if they wanted to make it in the cutthroat world of rock n’ roll.  He would rein in the cocky Nigel Guilford and muzzle the bastard or he would bury Metal Urge and watch Beastrage piss all over their graves.

It was late afternoon when the black sedan pulled into the long, narrow driveway leading to Wild Bill’s impressive estate.  Nigel parked his bike close behind, squinting up at the mammoth stone house and then at the large man headed toward the car.  Wild Bill greeted each of the lads as they emerged from the car, his large meaty hand engulfing their hands in a firm and friendly grip.  Wild Bill helped Thom from the van, pumping Thom’s hand and smiling.  He walked over to Nigel and grasped his hand, complimenting him on his taste in motorbikes before turning and gesturing for everyone to follow him.

They admired the massive hand-carved Georgian pillars that framed wide stone steps leading up to huge double doors fashioned of wood and stained glass, their height nearly as tall as gothic cathedral doors would be.  It wasn’t surprising that the renowned record producer favored such imposing architecture: he was a larger-than-life Texan who left the dry plains and oil fields of his native land for the green pastures and verdant hills of England, and never looked back.  At 6’4 and 280 pounds, he cut an impressive figure as he welcomed each of the members of Metal Urge into his home, Glaston Hall.

Wild Bill threw his arm around Trevor’s shoulders and thanked him for the opportunity to work with a band he was convinced were going knock the emerging heavy metal scene on its collective ass.

Trevor was surprised that the famed producer had been that impressed by the poorly produced demo tape he had sent Wild Bill some weeks ago; still he was pleased that Metal Urge had earned Wild Bill’s respect.  The trick was to retain that respect and exceed the man’s lofty expectations.  The band had better be on their best behavior as well as at their best musically or they were all fucked, and Trevor would take any, and all, losses out of their sorry hides.

****

After a sumptuous dinner of Beef Wellington, baby asparagus, and fresh salad straight from Wild Bill’s own garden, they were treated to French pears soaked in brandy and topped with Devon cream.  Jayson looked as though he had died and gone to heaven after gorging himself, and everyone laughed at his elaborate show of rubbing his distended belly, including Trevor.

After everyone had finished their delicious meal, Wild Bill led his guests to a room decorated in rich velvets and luxurious hand woven brocades.  Large overstuffed pillows ringed an oval table draped in a coppery silk fabric.  In the center of the table stood a contraption straight out of the novel “Arabian Nights” which Wild Bill called a hookah.  When he filled the clay bowl with a potent mixture of fine Turkish tobacco and hashish, Trevor excused himself citing a headache and rushed to his room to enjoy his own drug of choice.  He had no desire to watch those inexperienced fools get stoned out of their minds, not to mention he was beginning to cramp with the need for his white horse.  Before he calmed himself with a strong dose of the divine poppy, he had an axe to grind with the air-headed Maggi.  Why the hell hadn’t she informed him of her idiot friend’s relationship with that leather-clad horny goat, Nigel Guilford?  She better have a bloody good excuse or he would make her pay in more ways than one.